Your Everyday Assortment Herein

^Ha! A superficial but noteworthy contemplation: I fancy myself clever with anagrams.

Onto much more pressing matters (procrastinating for Communication Ethics). As such, I feel that a free write is in order:

I sit by the computer, a string of Italian vignettes in my hand, my purse by my side, my hair a mess, an old black jacket thrown over a hidden hoodie, ill-fitting jeans stretched on too-tall legs (splayed forward in an appropriately nonchalant manner.)

What a mess I must seem to the students walking by with books in their arms, the reference librarians in the afterglow of a day's hard work, and the custodial staff with their hurried demeanor and disgruntled faces.

The scene seems, to me, to be straight from a painting.

I feel an unexplained emptiness--best described as a strange lulling tugging at the corners of my heart (assuming my heart has more than one corner), and I am left with a feeling that can only be described as a sensation of feeling both hot and cold simultaneously.

A stale taste of idleness sits impatiently in my mouth, and I am once again reminded that I am on the outside looking in. Perhaps it is the droning of the vacuum cleaner that puts me in reverie, or perhaps it is the little boy, no younger than four, no older than eight, who sits beside me, twiddling his thumbs in anticipation of Monday night television and Spaghetti -O's.

These days I find the hours bleeding into days with a slow and congealing drip. And my tears, they blend quickly into watercolor. And they often make me wonder where my glass slipper has gone.

Not to be contradictory-- for I’m still a romantic... albeit a tragic, bruised one.

If there were one thing that I could be doing right now at this very instant, it would be painting. I would find an easel and paint freckled shirts, and would set my materials down in an exceptionally gorgeous scene and reproduce it for years to come so that people could see things the way that I see them. It would serve to allow people to feel what I feel, and the only problem that I would run into would be that there is not enough time to paint my whole world.

...The lulling in my chest has not yet subsided. When I feel this feeling, I write. It helps me to understand last semester’s impasse with myself. I am not wrong, I simply am. That’s my motto. I know that whatever happens in life will happen for a reason, and the beauty is not knowing. Although not knowing what to expect certainly makes it all the more difficult to muster resources to aid my courage.

It occurs to me that as one gets older, the scope of one’s portraits narrow to nothing more than a pitiful existence one has etched out from shattered dreams.

This thought has been playing in my head like a broken record recently. Not only that, but imagine now that the very calling God has placed on you is to do nothing more than ignite a spark in someone so that the ability to make dreams into a reality is not outside of that one person's scope anymore. An interesting concept; to exist to inspire.

As I get older, I don’t view myself as wiser simple because I’ve let go of my childish dreams. Rather, I see myself traveling on this road called life, having not stopped to smell the roses, instead settling for mediocrity though I was destined to be a roadside vendor. As a result, my spirit is restless, and no form of mental trickery can convince me of my satisfaction. Lately I’ve been feeling that there is so little time…

At the very least, this semester has taught me who I am. I am Elaine. I am a poet, an artist, a danger, a pillar, a friend, and a lover. I am a teacher, a student, an observer, a little girl, a business woman, and a dreamer. My soul is unbreakable. I’m no longer turned off by the behavior of others- I think only to myself in terms of dissatisfaction. Forgiveness is superlative ingredient in my recipe for virtue. I have considered this fact: If you spot it, you’ve got it. I no longer focus on the deficits of other people, but rather, I look to where I am falling short. This is how I best serve myself-- how else am I to have a clue to the success or failure of my future? The Bible comforts me these days and reinforces my newfound logic. Case and point (in relation to my former assertion), the words of Psalms 118:8: “[It is] better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in man.”

I have begun to piece my independence back together one stitch at a time. Once this tapestry is completed, I will take care of my other unfinished business.

Because I can do this.

... I'm feeling that a poem is in order--to wrap up this much-delayed blog post:

Bloom Where You Are Planted

By: E

I am dancing in the
dandelions, and I am late for class.

Again.

But sometimes, dandelions are more
important than learning about
language acquisition, the indirect
style of French, and the subtleties of
O'Connor. And I know this.

I pluck one (a dandelion, I mean), and
close my eyes so tightly that I see
a thousand tiny suns behind my
eyelids, and it is so beautiful
I almost forget to blow the petals
and make my wish.

Almost.

And then I blow so hard that every single
seedling flies off, haloed by the sun,
tilting the windmills of my psyche,
carrying my dream to its destination.

It is then that I hope that they all live and grow
to be beautiful, one for each of all the other little girls
who will wish upon them, and love and dance with them.

I am dancing in the dandelions,
and I am late for class.

Again.

I am not even dressed, and my eyes are puffy
and sore, and it probably makes them
smaller than they already are, but I don't
even stop to think about that.

There are so
many dandelions and so many wishes
to be made, but not for me.
For I am late for class.

Again.

And so I leave plenty enough dandelions
for other people to wish on
and love
and dance in.

And I dance away from the
dandelions. And I am
late for class.

Again.

Ah, that was a refreshing free write. Helped me to clear some thoughts out. I apologize, readers, for my delay in posting. Things have been busy lately. And now, Cinderella must leave at midnight (or 5pm in this case) before her riches are returned to rags.

Take care, my friends, and do not let today's clouds shield you from tomorrow's world.